


Truman’s Place

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch's current partner helps with the loss of his former partner. And with a killer who has his sites set on Hutch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truman’s Place

Written: 2000

  
First published in "A  
Small Circle of Friends 7" (2002)

Based on the MacGyverepisode, “Widowmaker” 

Fan-Q Award Winner

  He wasn’t afraid of heights, not if he could see down. Ken Hutchinson kept telling himself that, for surely he would begin to believe it sooner or later. There was no doubt he could see down now. A very, very long way down. He clutched tighter the rope that bore his weight, a purely psychological reassurance.

  “You okay, Hutch?”

  The voice from above was friendly and not terribly concerned, a grin curled around it, and Hutch nearly grinned back. “Sure, Tru, I just love hanging around.” 

  Jeff Truman laughed at that. “You ready to keep going?”

  No, Hutch could have answered without the slightest bit of thought, but then, he had agreed to do this. He’d always wanted to rock climb, and who better to do it with than a friend and expert climber? Hutch just hadn’t realized it would be quite so...high. He could just imagine what Starsky would have thought of the whole thing. They would have probably had to peel the brunet off the very first outcropping they reached. 

  But Jeff was still waiting and Hutch answered his friend’s question by swinging himself up higher and grasping at one of the crags. He found one handhold, then another, but his feet scrabbled uselessly against the rock, unsuccessful. After a moment, his hands slid loose, too, unable to hold his weight, and once more he found himself swinging free in a whole lot of empty space, feeling his friend compensate and jerk the rope back before he swung too far. 

  “Hutch, try a little to your left. There should be a good crack to wedge your feet into so you can lift yourself up.”

  Sure, piece of cake, Hutch thought dryly as he caught himself on the cliff face again. He wasn’t about to quit.  Besides, amazingly, he was having fun, heights and all. There was an exhilaration in the climb, conquering the heights and his fears. Maybe he should have tried harder to get Starsky out there, after all.

  With a curse, he slipped free once more. Hutch tried not to groan as he drooped in his rope harness, staring uncomfortably straight down.

  “Try it again,” the voice encouraged from above. “You can do it. Just a little to your left.”

  What the heck. Hutch shoved off with his foot from one crag and managed to snag a solid handhold, then felt around for another while his feet struggled to find purchase. A long second later, his toe caught the promised crack, and he crammed both his feet into it, his free hand finding another hold a moment later. 

  “Good job! Now just climb up--you’re only a few feet below the ledge.”

  Only a few feet. Easy for an expert to say, Hutch thought darkly, but he carefully inched his way up to the ledge, bracing himself in cracks and crevices and outcroppings just as his friend had showed him on the ground. With a final huff, he pulled himself over the lip of the rock shelf, trying to catch his breath as he lay on his stomach. 

  He heard Jeff swing down behind him to join him on the ledge, giving Hutch a single friendly pat on the back as he settled next to him. Hutch blew out his breath in a whoosh. Well, that had been the hard part, right? He carefully rolled himself upright to sit next to his climbing guide, their backs pressed against the cliff wall behind them and the view before them spectacular. Suddenly, the whole climb seemed worth it. 

  Jeff was digging in his small pack, and pulled out a candy bar, offering it cheerfully to Hutch. “You want one? Quick energy.”

  Hutch made a face. “You sound like my partner--my new one,” he quickly amended. 

  His former partner swept dark hair out of his eyes, teeth white in his face as he grinned. “You got stuck with another sugar junkie, huh? Maybe someone’s trying to tell you something, compadre.”

  Hutch just snorted, pulling out a banana from his own day’s supplies and beginning to peel it. 

  Undeterred, Jeff unwrapped the bar and bit into it with relish. He turned back to Hutch. “So, what’s his name again, Starky? What kinda guy is he?”

  “Starsky,” Hutch automatically corrected, then fell silent as he took a bite and chewed, thinking. What kind of guy--that was a hard question. He and Starsky had already been friends since the Academy, and official partners an unbelievable year and a half, almost as long as Hutch had been with Luke Huntley, his rookie-training partner on the streets, and longer than he’d been together with Truman in plainclothes division. Starsky wasn’t a new partner anymore, not by a long shot, and already they’d gone through their share of crises together, both personal and professional. And yet he was still learning about the tough-as-steel New Yorker with the innocent heart. 

  You trusted your partner with your life on the job--you had to if you were to stay alive--and most partners lived up to that trust. Jeff and Luke certainly had. But what he had with Starsky... Somewhere along the way it had stopped being about the job. They’d just _fit_ together, slowly building a friendship that was already stronger than any Hutch had ever known. He and Jeff had been close from the start, yet it had never been like this. It was an idea he was still getting used to and a new experience for both him and  Starsky, one that was not a little intimidating. But also one of the most incredibly reassuring. Even when it scared him, being that important to--and in need of--someone, Hutch wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  “Hutch?”

  A nudge brought him back to the cliffside and his climbing partner. Jeff was looking at him with the fond exasperation Hutch remembered seeing often in his friend on the streets, and, embarrassed, he stuffed another bit of banana into his mouth. “So you two are close, huh?’ 

  Hutch nodded without hesitation. 

  “Yeah, we are.”

  Jeff seemed to sober at that, munching thoughtfully on his candy bar. “So, uh...how close are you two?” he finally asked.

  The question didn’t quite make sense, and Hutch frowned after thinking about it a second, turning to his old partner. “What?”

  “I mean...I heard a couple of rumors about you two...” 

  Jeff wasn’t looking at him anymore, his body language decidedly uncomfortable, and suddenly it occurred to Hutch what the conversation was beginning to sound like. Eyes kindling, he stared at his friend. “What the--are you trying to tell me you think Starsky and I...that we...?” He didn’t need an answer, Jeff’s expression said it all, and Hutch gave a sputter of astonished, humorless laughter. There were always rumors like that in any close fraternity; he’d heard a few himself about partners who seemed extra close, but to think that he and Starsky... No, to think that _Jeff_ had thought that he and Starsky... He began to scramble to his feet with indignation, only a firm hand on his shoulder keeping him down. 

  “Don’t take it personally, compadre, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Jeff pleaded in face of Hutch’s angry stare. “It wouldn’t bother me if you and Starsky were close like that. In fact...” A nervous pause. “...I understand more than you think.” 

  Hutch’s anger slowly changed to confusion and he turned back to his friend with a frown. 

  But Jeff was avoiding his gaze again, intently crumpling the candy bar wrapper instead. “I, uh, always kinda hoped...you and, uh...”

  The light went on, and Hutch worked to keep his jaw from dropping. Oh, no, this was just going from bad to worse. “T-Tru,” Hutch stammered, ire completely replaced by dumbfoundedness. “I--”

  “Hey, no worries, man.” Jeff was already climbing to his feet, conspicuously looking everywhere but at Hutch. “Forget I said anything, huh?”

  Hutch flinched. This was not a subject he was comfortable with; he felt totally blindsided, in fact, at a loss for even what to think. But Jeff Truman had always been a friend, something Hutch wasn’t about to let go even if he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about the man’s revelation. 

  He grabbed Jeff’s arm as his former partner prepared to begin his ascent again. 

  “Tru...I’m just...I’m not into that,” he said awkwardly. “But that doesn’t have to change anything--”

  “Sure, Hutch,” Jeff said, a little too quickly for Hutch’s taste. “Listen, we don’t have far to go anymore but we’ve gotta get up there before we lose the light, okay? Unless you want to camp here for the night.” An abysmally fake grin. “I’ll go first and, when I tell you, you follow, okay?”

  Hutch’s hand fell away as he dully answered, “Okay.” Only good intentions on both their parts, and still something between them had just broken, possibly never to be fixed. Even now, Jeff’s confession knotted Hutch’s stomach and sent his thoughts into a tailspin. He could--almost--deal with the idea of this side of his friend he’d never been aware of, and maybe there had even been signs he might have even subconsciously noted. But that Jeff was hoping _he_... That was a little too much to grasp at once, let alone deal with. And on top of that, there had been the awful shame and pain in his former partner’s green eyes, instantly awakening the old protective instincts of their partnership. Hutch just didn’t know how to fulfill that duty this time. 

  Jeff had already climbed out of sight, only his bobbing rope giving sign that he was continuing to move steadily upward. Then the rope paused, no doubt as Truman wedged another piton into place to anchor his rope on. 

  “You okay?” Hutch called up. The question was unnecessary--who was the expert here, after all?--but he would have felt better hearing his friend’s voice. 

  No answer, only the minute movements of the cord stretching between them to tell him someone was even there. 

  Hutch gave it another half-minute, then tried again. “Tru?”

  The startled yelp was all the warning he had before there was the soft sounds of sliding above. Jeff’s yell came almost at the same moment. 

  “Falling!”

   The next second, a body came hurtling past him, a blur of blue and red climbing outfit and dark hair. 

  Hutch instantly braced his feet, clamping hard onto the rope to strengthen his grip for the shock. It came a split-second later, the hard yank that said Jeff’s rope had stopped his fall short, Hutch now easily holding his weight just as Jeff had done for him earlier. 

  “Truman?” he called worriedly, trying to see over the edge, but he was at the wrong angle. The taut rope wasn’t moving. “Tru?” Hutch tried to edge a little closer while keeping the rope steady. Maybe his friend had been knocked out? It happened sometimes on unexpected and longer falls like that, as the body bounced off the considerably harder cliff wall. If Hutch had to, he could pull the other man up, but it would sure help a lot if--

  He heard a slight groan below, the sound almost too quiet to catch. The rope stirred a little, and Jeff’s voice strengthened. “Hu\--”

  And suddenly the rope went slack in Hutch’s hand, the weight gone so abruptly that the blond fell back against the cliff wall. 

  That could only have meant one thing. 

  Hutch instantly lunged forward to the edge of the ledge. No no no, that wasn’t possible--and yet the only reason the pull would have disappeared was... 

  The red and blue figure was already tiny, far below him, and then it plunged out of sight into the vegetation around the base of the cliff. 

  Oh, dear God.

  Hutch couldn’t catch his breath, gasping at the disbelief that threatened to crush his chest. This couldn’t happen, Jeff was the expert, the cliff one that he’d conquered before, the day supposedly one of fun and a chance to spend some time together. He couldn’t be gone just like that, and why, when his rope had been secure in Hutch’s hands, and yet his body...

  Hutch tore his eyes away from the eternally long drop, squeezing them tightly shut with a groan, only to twist back a moment later to search the greenery below for some sign of his friend. He’d seen falling victims before, bodies that only fell a few stories and how the impact mangled them, and this was ten times farther, and that meant Jeff... His breath came in sobbing gasps. 

  Trapped on the small ledge and in sudden shock, Hutch curled on his side and shut out the world around him.

  Dobey was prepared for the protest the second the door opened.

  “Cap’n, we have the weekend off.” Starsky was talking before he was even inside, the particularly aggrieved tone that meant complaint more for the sake of appearance than of real annoyance. “Hutch’s gone--”

  “That’s why I called you, Starsky,” Harold Dobey said gravely. “Close the door.”

  Something flickered in Starsky’s face, the casual demeanor slipping away to reveal something harder edged underneath. Dobey knew his men more than many of his fellow captains bothered, and was well aware that Starsky, for all his playful innocence, was no naif. Especially when there was threat of trouble. He watched as Starsky shut the door and turned back to face him, then spoke before the inevitable questions would come. 

  “This is about Hutchinson.” He could see Starsky had guessed as much, but the blue eyes went a shade darker. A threat against his partner was about the worst side of Starsky someone could get on. Dobey cleared his throat. “I take it you already know he went on a rock-climbing expedition yesterday with a friend of his, his former partner.”

  A single, stark nod. The only reason Starsky hadn’t interrupted him yet was that his jaw was locked with a tightness Dobey could make out halfway across the room. The captain couldn’t help but wonder, not for the first time, if Starsky’s early violent loss of his father made him more protective and wary than most, particularly of his partner. Not that Hutchinson seemed less custodial. To Dobey’s amazement, he’d watched his odd-couple team become the tightest he had, and the captain had an idea that even he didn’t know how deeply that went. 

  Which made this all the harder. “I received word about an hour ago. Officer Jeff Truman fell to his death yesterday afternoon, apparently in a climbing accident.”

  “Hutch?” Starsky asked instantly.

  “Hutchinson was rescued off a ledge on the cliffside and treated for shock before being released. They don’t seem to think he had any part in the accident, particularly since Truman was the expert.”

  Starsky’s brow was furrowed with puzzlement. “Shock?”

  “Apparently he watched Truman fall,” Dobey said quietly. “Hutchinson was badly shaken and had to be airlifted off the cliff--he was unable to climb off.”

  Starsky wasn’t looking at him anymore, staring off to one side as he digested that, and the ramifications to his partner. The stunned expression didn’t last long, though, as he turned back to pin Dobey with an intense stare. “Where’s he now?”

  “Truman had a small cabin in the area that he used to stay in when he went to climb, and they say Hutch has gone back there.” Dobey let the less formal name slip as he moved away from the role boss and toward counselor. A good police captain wore a lot of hats. “Starsky, you didn’t know Truman, did you?”

  Starsky’s mind was clearly elsewhere and he dragged it back absently to answer the captain’s question. “Uh, we met a few times when he ‘n Hutch rode together. Nice guy.”

  “Yes, he was. And even though they haven’t been together for some time, Hutch still lost a partner. That takes a long time to get over.” Dear God, how well he knew that. “I’m going up this afternoon to talk to him--I have a cabin up at Pine Lake if he wants to get away for a while, but I think he’ll just need some time.”

  As he’d talked, Starsky’s eyes had refocused on him and the dark-curled head tilted as he listened to what the captain was saying. Or rather, what he was almost saying. And suddenly Dobey wondered what the heck he was trying to do, giving advice to one partner on what the other needed. That was necessary for some of the rookie partnerships sometimes, but in this case maybe he was the one who should’ve been taking notes.

  But Starsky’s gaze was opaque, non-revealing. At least his tone didn’t sound angry when he finally spoke.

  “Cap’n, I’m gonna need Monday off.”

  Monday? Dobey frowned. He’d intended to lengthen Hutchinson’s weekend off, but did Starsky expect to be up there all that time, too? And why wasn’t Starsky inviting himself along on Dobey’s visit?

  Of course, when had he ever understood his youngest and most unconventional pair of detectives? 

  The captain only sighed. “All right, Starsky,” he said slowly. “But then I’m putting you and Hutchinson back on the roster the day after.”

  Starsky nodded, a flicker of a sober smile of gratitude on his face, then he turned on his heel and left. 

  That expression stayed with Dobey all during his trip up to Truman’s cabin. 

   On afterthought, he’d been rather surprised that Starsky hadn’t insisted on going _instead_ of the captain to see Hutch. It was obvious he’d been worried about Hutch, something  Dobey could have predicted with certainty beforehand. That Starsky wasn’t only not blazing the trail up there, but even indifferent to Dobey visiting first, meant two things as far as the captain could tell. Either Starsky was expecting  Hutchinson to snap out of it and work things out himself, which was certainly not the sense the captain had gotten back in his office. Or else Starsky knew Hutch, and when his partner would need what. 

  Somehow Dobey had a feeling his trip wouldn’t be too much of a success.

  He had to go, though. True, it wasn’t his duty as captain to track down his men after a personal crisis and check up on them. Technically, it _was_ his job to make sure his people were fit mentally and physically to do their job, and for all the outer toughness of the blond, there was a softness inside him that bled for every victim, every lost soul they came across in their line of work. It made for a good cop, one who cared, but it had to be a hard way to live and could easily break a man. But what  Dobey really wanted was to make sure that one of his boys was all right. He knew intimately the shattering blow of a partner’s death, even if Elmo Jackson had been a young Harold Dobey’s working partner and had been killed on a case they were on together. Partner ties didn’t just go away once you stopped working together. They were too hard won and went far too deep for that. 

  Like Starsky and Hutchinson’s. And Dobey idly wondered if a current partner could help with the loss of a former one. In some partnerships, jealousy would have been an issue, too, but Dobey couldn’t see that happening with those two. Starsky hadn’t had to fill Truman’s place, creating his own unique relationship with the blond instead. Even Dobey had seen as much. If anything, Truman would have been the one to possibly have cause for jealousy, if he’d had it in him. But Dobey had heard nothing but good about the affable young cop, and grieved the loss of a fine officer. 

  The turn-off came into sight around the bend, and Dobey took it, his old car stuttering over the bumps and holes in the dirt road. 

  Up ahead, just out of sight from the road, sat the cabin amidst a virtual forest of evergreens. A dusting of snow would have made it look like something out of a Currier & Ives print, and Dobey nodded once with appreciation. His own cabin was somewhat larger but not as well kept, this one having bright curtains in the clean windows and a freshly-swept porch, split logs of some hard wood piled to one side of the door. No doubt Truman had come up often to the place, and Dobey remembered with a twinge that the man had been reputed to be an expert climber. So what had gone wrong? Only one living person knew.

  Speaking of which, the captain climbed out his car and up the steps to the plank door, giving it a hard knock.

  Silence. He kept an eye on both windows but saw no hint of movement inside. With a shrug, Dobey opened the door and went in. 

  The cabin was as neat and cared for inside as out, sparsely but tastefully furnished. The only sign of habitation was the rumpled cot in one corner, a counterpoint to the neatly made bed at the opposite end of the room, and the coffee cup that stood by itself on the small kitchen counter. And the back door that stood half-open.

  Dobey closed the front door behind him and crossed the small room to look out behind the cabin. 

  The view wasn’t much different from the front, greenery wherever the eye looked. At least his own cabin was by a lake, but the scenery here was admittedly peaceful. Which was no doubt why the lone figure in sight had settled beneath the boughs of one of the large trees and was staring obliviously out into the depths of the forest.

  Dobey left the yawning doorway and silently went to join him.

  The pine needles crackled and crunched under his feet, forecasting his coming to his host, but the blond head didn’t move, turned toward the heart of the forest as if entranced by the sight. Dobey knew better. 

  He stopped several feet away, suddenly uncomfortable with invading the space of a man who seemed ambivalent to his existence. He hadn’t been willing or able to listen to anyone after Elmo had died, either.  

  But why else had he come all that way? Dobey finally cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Hutchinson?” 

  A pause, then, quietly, “What?”

  It wasn’t exactly the respect he usually expected of his men, but then, this was hardly on the job, either. And the hollowness of the voice would have forestalled any rebuke he might have made. “I wanted to see how you were doing, Hutch.”

  “I’m fine.” The words, meant to be curt, only sounded tired. 

  Dobey weighed what he said next. “I’m sorry about Truman. Hutchinson, others have lost partners, too. Maybe if you talked to someone about it?”

  Hutch didn’t move, didn’t answer, his face still in shadow as he stared away from Dobey. 

  “Look, I have a cabin up at Pine Lake, why don’t you--”

  “I’m okay.” 

  Dobey paused again. “The funeral is Monday.” The quiet was broken only by the breeze that rustled tree limbs against each other, and the calls of birds above. Fine, maybe it was time for a little push. “Even if you don’t come down for it, I expect you back at work by Tuesday, Hutchinson.” But he was somehow beginning to doubt the man before him would be back at all, let alone in three days.  

  It was like talking to one of the trees, but at least they moved and whispered back. Dobey softened. 

  “Hutch, it wasn’t your fault.”

  Hutch’s head suddenly whipped around, his face hard and his tone vehement. “With all due respect, _sir,_ you don’t know the first thing about what happened up there.”

  Dobey nearly shied back, taken off guard by both the anger and the answer. More than ever he wondered what had happened on that cliff, but it seemed unlikely he would get any answers that day. Maybe Starsky would have better luck. 

  At any rate, the one thing he knew was that Hutch wasn’t responsible for Truman’s death. There was a haunted guilt in the blue eyes, to be sure, and if Dobey didn’t know for certain that Hutch would have sooner thrown himself off a cliff than cause another to fall, the captain might have wondered about the accidental death ruling. But there was one other thing that overshadowed even the guilt, and that was sincere grief. 

  Hutch had turned away again, his shoulders raised like a defensive wall against anything further Dobey had to say, and the captain knew it was time to go. 

  “Take care of yourself, son,” was all he said, and receiving no more response than he expected, returned through the cabin to his car and left.

  He really did hope Starsky would have better luck with his partner, because the only thing more Dobey could do for his wounded man now was to pray. 

  The faint scratch of metal on metal wouldn’t have carried far into the cottage, even if anyone had been there to hear it. No one was. Within seconds, the forewarning ended as the picked lock was sprung and the door silently opened inward. Under the disguise of night, a figure in black stepped invisibly inside. 

  The door shut behind him and a tiny flashlight beam appeared, the only sign he gave of himself, even if the neighborhood was a quiet one and not much patrolled. The light swung around the spacious living room, taking in the layout of the house and its emptiness in one circuit. Not even a single quiet curse marred the intruder’s discipline, and instead he moved forward, taking in the details of the room. 

  White caught his eye, and he leaned forward to pick up the piece of paper propped on the living room table. 

CALL ME IF YOU GET THIS. I’M GOING UP TO SEE YOU ON MONDAY IF I DON’T HEAR FROM YOU. -STARSK

“Starsky,” he quietly murmured. But all in due time. He forced his hand to loosen its grip on the note and dropped the paper where he stood before going on.

  The cottage was indeed empty, but he’d felt as much almost immediately. That sense was one of his many trained skills, remnants of his former life, all he had left now. Thanks to Hutchinson and Starsky. 

  Frank Poindexter was not one to easily forget a debt. The two detectives probably didn’t even remember him, but they’d cost him a lucrative drug business, his reputation, even his wife. Carmela hadn’t been able to leave him fast enough after his life had come crashing down. Oh, he definitely remembered Hutchinson and Starsky. And he’d make sure they wouldn’t forget his name, either...in what little time they had left. 

  He returned to the front door as silently as he’d come. He could leave  Hutchinson a gift for his return, to be sure, but the detectives were notorious for their ability to survive even the most clever of traps, and he was tired of the games. The next time would be in person. But for now, his target was apparently out of town. On Monday he’d have a guide as to exactly where. Perfect, two birds with one stone. Two vultures. Then he could start over in peace.

  He vowed as much to himself as he gently shut the door behind him and slipped back into the darkness. 

  Starsky navigated the rough mountain road with an unusual lack of attention. The old Datsun was on its last legs and normally he would have babied it along, trying to avoid all the worst holes and bumps and coaxing it through the rest. He’d already had to replace the spark plugs and most of the exhaust system recently, just to keep it going for a few more months until he could get the gorgeous Torino he’d been eyeing at the car lot. But that red beauty and his own sputtering beast were the last thing on Starsky’s mind. 

  Dobey had briefly filled him in on how the captain’s conversation with Hutch had gone a few days before, but Starsky could have predicted his partner’s responses. He would have told his boss the attempt would be useless, except he knew the man had to try and that was a plus for him in Starsky’s book. Even if he hadn’t gotten anywhere.

  Starsky made a face, shifting in the bucket seat. Hutch wasn’t an easy person to know, and anyone who’d made the mistake of thinking they’d figured him out usually found themselves at the wrong end of a Hutchinson tongue-lashing, several of which Starsky had been amused audience to. A mix of shy farm kid and poised high society, Hutch tripped over his own gangly legs and blushed a hilarious pink when he was embarrassed, and yet was utterly at ease in a tux at a glitzy party. And even though he was one also of the most hard-nosed cops on the street, someone Starsky would never have wanted to get on the wrong side of, Hutch would also offer a handkerchief--a handkerchief!--to a crying hooker, crouch down to talk soft to kids, cringe at the broken bodies and spirits they came across in their work. Not so deeply under that tough shell was one of the most astonishingly caring people Starsky had ever met. 

  It had connected with something good in Starsky that he’d thought he’d long lost. 

  Soon Starsky found his humor, once ruthless and tough, softening into the _fun_ he’d almost forgotten from his childhood. The hard layers of indifference he’d built up through loss, war, and loneliness, began to loosen and fall away. And slowly he’d realized that he wanted to be a cop because he honestly did want to help people. All because of the influence of one Minnesotan flatfoot with damnably knowing blue eyes. 

  And then they’d become partners, and the need to trust each other with their lives was added to their already growing friendship. Starsky hadn’t looked back after that, and there was no end in sight before them.

  He refused to believe that this was maybe it. 

  Starsky knew the blond had been friends as well as partners with Jeff Truman, and had liked the young cop well enough the few times he’d met him, even been grateful to him for having done a good job watching Hutch’s back when the two had been partnered on patrol. Not that he saw Truman a lot; Hutch’s former partner had decided to remain in patrol even as Starsky and Hutch had become detectives and moved on into Robbery and then Special Units. But any friend of Hutch’s was a friend of his.

  As well as someone the blond mourned deeply when they were gone. Starsky had already seen it when Hutchinson’s beloved grandmother had died, the bottled up grief he’d had to coax Hutch into giving release to. This time it was not only someone he cared about, but a former partner, someone he’d have felt especially responsible for, and the fatal accident had occurred while they were together. Triple whammy. Starsky had known from the first word how hard his partner would take it, how all-but-unreachable he’d be for at least the first few days. Starsky had given the blond that, the chance to process and mourn in private. Now it was his turn to listen to what Hutch had worked out in that time, and then give him a kick in the posterior to snap him out of it and get him going again. At least, that was what he’d hoped he’d be able to do. Hutch had lost one partner, but his other one would be there for him whether he liked it or not. 

  Starsky nodded sharply at the windshield, just as the turn-off Dobey described came into view. He veered off onto it as the old Datsun reached the unmarked road. 

  Far too lost in his thoughts to notice the sedan that stopped a discreet distance behind.

  The cabin was much as he’d thought it would be, rustic and wooden and much too far away from civilization for Starsky’s comfort. He liked it a lot better when his partner retreated to the beach to think, some place more accessible and local. But all the trees were kind of pretty, Starsky had to admit as he climbed out of the car, retrieving the bag of groceries he’d brought along, before slamming the door shut behind him. That Hutch had chosen to do his soul-searching here, in the midst of all the _nature_ he liked so much, was no real surprise to Starsky. 

  The cabin door was unlocked, and Starsky shook his head in amusement as he pushed it open. It was obvious that the blond had grown up in a small town; he was the only person Starsky had met in L.A. who actually kept his key above the door of his Venice cottage. Not that there would bound to be a lot of visitors way out in the wild. Truman must have liked seclusion. 

  Starsky set the brown paper bag on the counter, taking the room in at a practiced glance. Two plates and a half-dozen mugs were piled in and beside the sink, a sign more of Hutch’s lack of appetite than of any effort to clean up after himself. Similarly, the cot in the corner that was no doubt his was unmade and looked thrashed about in, as if it had been witness to more than one nightmare. At the same time, a neatly made, comfortable-looking bed stood untouched in another corner. Truman’s, Starsky chewed his lip. There was also a small pile of dirty clothes beside the cot. Definitely not his typically fastidious partner. Interestingly enough, though, every surface in the cabin was dusted, glass gleaming and metal buffed. The ADLs\--Activities of Daily Living--were slipping, and yet the cabin itself was being well looked after. Starsky made a face to himself, not liking the picture it all painted of his partner’s state of mind. 

  The groceries could wait. Starsky stepped past them and out into the back. He needed to find Hutch. 

  No blond head was immediately in sight, and Starsky impatiently headed toward the east side of the cabin. If Hutch wasn’t in sight of the structure, Starsky knew he’d have to wait for his partner to return on his own; looking for a lost-in-the-woods Starsky wasn’t exactly the kind of distraction a grieving Hutch needed.

  Nothing. He turned and retraced his steps, this time going to the western corner. And there he almost fell over the log on which sat his prodigal partner. 

   After all the speeches he’d tried to practice on his way up, the cliched tripe he’d picked up from years of TV, Starsky found himself going by the instincts of years of friendship. Silently, he skirted the log and sat, simply putting a hand on the bowed shoulder next to his. 

  Hutch didn’t look at him, either, didn’t react for a long minute, his eyes on a piece of rope he was fiddling with. But when he finally spoke, it was with a barrenness that told Starsky far more than anything he said could have. 

  “Did Dobey send you?”

  “That’s a dumb question,” Starsky said mildly.

  Hutch snorted, casting him a side glance without meeting his eyes. “I don’t need company, Starsky.” 

  “I think all this fresh air’s gettin’ to your head. Since when do I count as company?”

  Hutch’s shoulder’s tightened, all but shrugging loose Starsky’s hold. “I don’t need a babysitter, either.” 

  “Good, ‘cause I’m not offering.” He cast a speculative look at the angry man beside him, trying to read what was underneath the ire. He’d thought before that he knew, but now suddenly Starsky wasn’t so sure. “The funeral was nice--Truman had a lot of friends in the department.” 

  The bitter laugh caught him completely off guard. “I’ll bet,” was all Hutch said, but it left Starsky frowning in confusion at him. It almost sounded like Hutch was being sarcastic, and that was so out of character for his friend in this case, Starsky wondered if they were having the same conversation. He’d have doubted Hutch had even liked the former officer, except that there was a current of grief in the blond’s voice and demeanor that Starsky was certain he’d read right. So...what was he missing?

  His voice gentled, no longer even pretending the usual banter. “What happened up there, Hutch?”

  “You read the report.” Hutch wasn’t asking him; even when things were off between them, they were more in synch with each other than Starsky had ever been with anyone else. He was fairly certain it was the same for his partner. 

  “Yeah. Tell me the rest of it.”

  Hutch just shook his head as it drooped even further. “That’s it. Tru fell and he’s dead.” 

  “That’s not all. What else is eatin’ you?” Starsky asked softly. 

  Hutch’s face darkened again and he turned fully toward Starsky for the first time, dislodging his grip. “Isn’t that enough? He was my _partner_ , Starsky. You’re supposed to watch your partner’s back.”

  Starsky’s mouth quirked at the irony. He wasn’t about to disagree with that. “Yeah.”

  His own partner flushed, suddenly flustered. Any minute now Starsky expected him to get up and trip over his own feet. 

  “You wanna know what I think?” he said before Hutch could bolt.

  “No.”

  It didn’t slow him for a second. “I think Tru slipped and there wasn’t anything you could do about it.” Starsky looked forcefully at his partner. “He was the expert, Hutch, not you. But accidents just happen sometimes.”

  Hutch shot to his feet. “Starsky, I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, almost desperately.

  Starsky tried not to look as exasperated as he felt. This wasn’t going at all the way he’d expected; he knew how to handle a grieving partner, but there was something else mixed in here that he wasn’t getting. Not just misplaced guilt for the death of a friend--of a former partner--either. Surely the blond hadn’t, even accidentally, somehow contributed to his friend’s death? Starsky frowned. “Hutch--”

  “Forget it.” Hutch pulled away before Starsky could touch him. “If you’re not leaving, I am.” Matching action to words, he strode back toward the cabin. 

  Starsky climbed to his feet, hurrying after. He caught up to the blond at the door, sliding in his way to block him from going inside. His own irritation was beginning to rise at his partner’s evasions, and he let it show. “Runnin’ ain’t gonna help here, buddy boy. You’re gonna talk to me even if I have to sit on ya.” His  New York twang thickened with feeling. 

  Hutch waved an equally angry finger under his nose. “I didn’t invite you. Why don’t you just...” His voice trailed off into nothing, his finger motionless even as his eyes narrowed at something over Starsky’s shoulder. 

  Starsky, confused, turned to follow his gaze. There was nothing amiss that he could see. 

  “Do you smell that?” Hutch asked distractedly behind him. 

  Starsky gave the air a sniff. It hadn’t hit him before, the smell a familiar one in the city, but then they weren’t in the city, were they. “Gas?” he ventured.

  “Yeah...” Hutch pushed past him without a glance, sniffing as he went. Starsky stood still and watched. It was gasoline, not natural gas, but maybe Truman kept a can or two at the cabin in case it was needed. That made sense. Except that it seemed off to Hutch.

  His partner ended up in the middle of the cabin, crouching to draw a finger along the floor, then sniff it. Squinting, Starsky could just make out that the floor seemed to be darker there, an irregular patch of stained wood that looked like it followed a trail back to the door they’d just entered through. That seemed to jostle some old memory...

  “Here,” Hutch said firmly. “There’s practically a puddle of it. What does that remind you of?”

  Starsky’s jaw began a slow drop, his widened eyes meeting his partner’s as Hutch looked up at him, the same dreaded answer mirrored in his face. His mouth worked for a minute before he could manage the words. “You don’t think--”

  “Think again.”

  The third voice came from the door in front of them as it was thrown open. Frank Poindexter. Starsky knew it before he even looked up, and only had a moment to register the leering smile he’d hoped to never see again. Then his eyes were drawn to the blazing knot of wood that Poindexter flung their way. 

  Fire again. Why was it always fire with that creep?

  A hard jerk pulled him out of the way just as the chunk of wood hit the gasoline-soaked floor almost where he’d been standing. The resultant _whoosh_ as the floor caught fire, blazing a path along the soaked wood, nearly singed his hair, and he blindly stumbled farther away from it. 

  There was laughter coming from the front doorway, and Starsky glanced up again to see the heavy wooden door slam shut. 

  “We’ve gotta get out of here.” That was Hutch next to him, his hand still gripping Starsky’s arm where he’d grabbed hold to snatch his partner out of the fire’s path. He gave Starsky’s arm a shake. “You with me?”

  “Yeah...yeah,” Starsky stammered, shaking himself out of his daze and quickly eyeing the room. Already the fire filled the back doorway, stretching to the middle of the cabin, from where it was spreading outward. Soon it would force them back against the walls. The thick smoke filled the air, already burning Starsky’s eyes and marring his throat. Hutch’s hand on his head pushed down, and Starsky crouched obediently into the clearer air beneath the black billows. But they had to do something, fast. 

  “Come on!” Hutch had apparently come to the same decision and was now skirting the fire, heading toward the front door. He glanced once behind him to make sure Starsky was following, nearly running into him. Starsky had no intention of losing his life, or his partner’s, to a fire. He’d already come too close to doing that once. 

  They reached the door and Hutch heaved at the door handle. It didn’t move. No doubt barred somehow from the outside. Starsky stifled a weary curse, eyes drawn fatalistically back to the roaring flames. 

  But Hutch was moving again, backtracking to the untouched bed in the corner by the door and yanking off the heavy top comforter. Starsky watched, puzzled, as the blond then circled the fire. Surely he wasn’t going to try to beat it out? Already the top of the flames licked at the roof above the middle of the room and covered over half the cabin floor. 

  Hutch had reached the small kitchen area and with abrupt motions, turned the faucet on high and stuffed the blanket under the spray. One hand held his shirt up over his nose and mouth, but with the other he made quick work of soaking the blanket.

  Starsky suddenly had an idea where this was going and didn’t like the answer. The smoke filled his eyes and throat with a sick deja vu, and mimicking his partner he pulled his shirt up over the bottom half of his face and crouched lower. From there, he watched his partner with streaming eyes and hoped they weren’t going to do what he thought they were going to do.

  The fire had almost reached the sink, making Hutch shy away to the far side of the basin until he was satisfied with the blanket’s saturation and dragged it out of the sink. The trailing corner flopped heavily to the floor, sizzling against the hot wood where it struck. Starsky watched with horrified fascination as Hutch dragged it close.

  The blue eyes met his own. “We have to do this,” Hutch said, his voice raised to be heard over the crackle and roar around them. 

  Starsky shook his head with vehemence. “That’s crazy,” he croaked back. There had to be another option.

  “It’s the only way,” Hutch said urgently, but his expression was suddenly sympathetic under all the soot. “We’ll do it together.”

  That was maybe the one thing that could have convinced him. 

  Starsky hadn’t had to say a word; Hutch had seen he’d made his decision, and in the next moment, the wet blanket was thrown over him. The cool, drenched material felt almost soothing against his fire-heated skin, and Starsky pressed his face against it for a moment as he waited for Hutch to wriggle in next to him. It didn’t take long, and soon they were huddled next to each other under the laden covers.

  “Ready?”

  “No,” Starsky said flatly. 

  Hutch’s mouth quirked. And then they were dashing through the flames that walled off the back door, the fire licking at Starsky’s shoes, the air inside their shelter becoming unbearably hot for a half-second. And then they were out, the roar of the fire suddenly behind them. 

  Starsky nearly went limp with adrenalin-pumped relief and lack of oxygen, coughing hard to clear his lungs of the harsh smoke, but there was no time for rejoicing, not with a lunatic around. They were already shedding the blanket as they ran, falling into a familiar pattern as Starsky followed his partner to the corner of the building. 

  He waited as Hutch took a careful look, then edged around the corner with him. The window they passed glowed red from the inside, but Starsky didn’t look. Not right now. He could let the delayed panic hit later. 

  At the front corner, they paused again, and once more Hutch gave the all-clear sign. Surely it wasn’t going to be this easy? Where had Poindexter disappeared to?

  Starsky nearly ran into the back of his suddenly halted partner. And followed his line of sight to Hutch’s dilapidated Ford, looking worse than ever as it listed on four slashed, flattened tires.

  “My car,” Starsky said tersely, pushing ahead of the blond to lead the way. He couldn’t remember if the Ford had looked like that when he’d arrived, but surely there hadn’t been time to sabotage both cars. Nope, the Datsun’s tires were fine. Finally, a break.

  He had his door unlocked in seconds--had he left it locked? He couldn’t remember--as Hutch loped around to the other side. Starsky leaned over the passenger-side seat to let him in.

  _Tick, tick, tick, tick._

  Starsky froze. It was so faint, he could barely hear it. But then, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been meant to do so. Games seemed to be the order of the day. 

  He scrambled instantly out of the car. “Bomb!” Starsky cast only the briefest glance at his partner, seeing puzzlement turn into comprehension, and then he was running alongside Starsky as they rushed to put distance between them and the car. 

  The explosion still smacked them to the ground. 

  Starsky rolled over almost instantly, sparing his burning shell of a car a disbelieving glance. It looked like he’d need a new car sooner than he thought. The explosion was just one more fitting touch, another fire to visit his dreams. At least this time Hutch--

  Starsky’s head jerked up to stare at the recumbent form on the ground next to him. Motionless. Any thoughts of his car vanished and Starsky hurriedly pushed himself upright and reached for his partner. 

  Hutch moaned and moved at the same instant, raising his head to blink fuzzily at Starsky. “Not one of our better days,” he groaned. 

  Starsky almost smiled at that. “No kidding. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “No kidding,” Hutch repeated humorlessly. He pushed himself up with another groan as Starsky anxiously scanned the area. No one else was in sight, but that wasn’t particularly reassuring. He had no doubt they weren’t alone. As for the cabin, it was a total loss, the flames already engulfing the roof, and Starsky only hoped the trees around them wouldn’t go up as well. It had been a wet winter, though, and the ground and greenery was unusually soaked. Hopefully that would be enough. 

  He turned back to Hutch. “Where to now, Kemosabe?”

  Hutch was sitting up, rubbing at a no-doubt stiff neck. “I don’t have my piece, do you?” At Starsky’s mournful shake of the head--who would have guessed he’d need a gun in the mountains?--he didn’t seem surprised, pointing an almost-steady finger past the wreckage of the Datsun.  “We’ll have to go out to the road. We can follow it down--the nearest town’s only a few miles away and then we can call Dobey and get reinforcements.” 

  “Okay,” Starsky said gamely, climbing to his feet and then extending a hand to his partner. His eyes were irresistibly pulled to the burning cabin again, and he paused, mesmerized. 

  “You okay?” came Hutch’s concerned voice right next to his ear.

  Starsky started, turning to give his partner a half-smile. Hutch knew all his demons, but this was one Starsky could deal with on his own. “Yeah.”

  A brief squeeze of his arm was all the answer he needed, and then Hutch waved toward the road. “Let’s go.” 

  In tandem, they hurried past the useless Ford and edged around the dying blaze of the Datsun. Hutch led the way and was about to step out into the road when something caught Starsky’s eye. Something he’d had no reason to look for for a long, long time. 

  “Wait,” he hissed, his grab at Hutch’s jacket completely unnecessary since the blond froze at his command. He ignored his partner’s whispered “What?” as he crouched, taking a closer look at the ground. The thin layer of dirt hadn’t covered the glint of metal only two feet away. A few feet beyond that was another, this one better buried but the lump still evident. 

  Starsky closed his eyes for a brief second. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, but even he hadn’t expected this. Poindexter's speed was unwelcome testimony to his skill.

  “What’s wrong?” Hutch demanded again, still _sotto voce_. 

  Starsky climbed to his feet, trying to trace the scatter of lumps and fresh mounds of dirt. He could see a few, but he wasn’t willing to bet he saw them all, and it would only take one. “It’s mined,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t need to say how he knew. Hutch had been taught his way around the woods and mountains, but Starsky had gotten a fair training of his own in the jungles of Southeast Asia. 

  Hutch swore under his breath, then fell silent for a second, thinking. “All right, we’ll have to go the other way.” 

  Starsky tore his eyes away from the road to frown at his partner. “Other way?” The woods on both sides of the road looked dense and hard to navigate, and there was no guarantee Poindexter hadn’t planted a few mines in them, either. But behind them was only...

  A quick jerk of the thumb toward the cabin. “Up the mountain.” Hutch’s answer was brisk, and he was already turning to head in the direction he indicated.

  “You sure about this?”

  “No,” Hutch answered without missing a beat. “But you wanna wait around here for him to show up?” He gave Starsky a grim glance.

  Starsky suppressed a shudder. “Nope.”

  “Then we go up.”

  “Up,” Starsky repeated dully. Terrific. And he’d thought a morose partner was going to be the real challenge. 

  “Wasn’t our last report about Poindexter something about him being up north, in Washington or someplace?” Hutch climbed the gentle slope easily, several steps ahead of Starsky. 

  Actually, Starsky suspected even that was humoring him. He was in good shape for a cop, capable of running even faster than Hutch in a sprint, but he was definitely not cut out for these endurance hikes, let alone in all that fresh air. Still, this wasn’t the time to complain and he tried to cover his breathlessness. “Yeah, that’s what they said,” he replied shortly.

  Hutch glanced back at him nevertheless, then stopped. “Why don’t we take a break?” he suggested, and lowered himself onto a convenient rock, his eyes still on Starsky.

  Who knew his partner saw right through him. Grimacing despite his gratitude, he sank down on a fallen trunk and rubbed at his tired legs. Of course, Hutch was in hiking shoes and Starsky only had his Adidas’s on, but then, he hadn’t come out there expecting to be climbing mountains, either. “You sure it’s safe?”

  Sharp blue eyes scanned the area behind them. “I don’t see any sign of him following us.” 

  Starsky didn’t bother to point out that they probably wouldn’t, either, until it was too late. Poindexter was no fool. There was no choice; they had to keep going. A shiver shook him despite the comfortable temperature, and he slumped with a weary sigh. 

  Hutch’s gaze had changed now, more thoughtful. “The fire was a bad one, wasn’t it?”

  It didn’t even cross Starsky’s mind to wonder which fire his partner was talking about. He didn’t look up as he pulled one shoe off and absently rubbed at the aching sole of his foot. “I wasn’t sure I could get you out,” he answered softly. 

  “But you did.” 

  Starsky managed a smile as he met his partner’s eyes. “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t say much in your report. I didn’t know.” 

  Starsky shrugged, concentrating on the laces he was tying. He wasn’t one to dwell on the past, not unless it came and slugged him in the face like it had earlier that day. Which reminded him... Starsky peered up at his partner as he pulled off his other shoe. “You come this way with Truman?”

  Hutch’s expression went flat. “No. We were supposed to come back this way but...” He glanced around. “I think we’d better start moving again. No telling how far behind us he is.” Without waiting for an answer, he started off once more. 

  Starsky muttered something uncharitable under his breath as he quickly replaced his shoe and rose, swallowing a groan at the ache in his muscles. And the dryness of his throat; he would have traded his car for a cup of water just then. Oh, that’s right, he thought morosely as he followed in his partner’s steps, he didn’t have a car now, did he? This was just turning out better and better.

  And then there was Poindexter. A year before, investigation of the suspected drug dealer had seemed to be routine at first; it was only when the man had torched the warehouse with all his stock--and Hutch--inside that Starsky began to realize how desperate he was, how far he was willing to go. The dealer would have lost his freedom, then, too, but he’d bet successfully that Starsky was more anxious to save his partner than to make the arrest. Hutch had been oblivious to the showdown, but Starsky still grew furious at the thought of the man’s cruelty. And Poindexter had promised then that he’d be back. Apparently he was a man of his word.  

  A glance at his partner’s stiff back told Starsky he wasn’t the only one struggling with memories. Truman hadn’t been forgotten in the midst of the crisis, merely set aside for the moment. It was a relief for Starsky to know his partner was still there underneath the troubled, withdrawn exterior, even if Starsky would have chosen another way to get through if it’d been up to him. The only thing good about the whole mess had been that it’d shaken Hutch out of his introspection and forced him to look past his fog of emotions, and Starsky was determined not to let him slip back, Poindexter or no.

  Speeding his steps a little, he’d almost reached Hutch’s side and had just opened his mouth to say something when the blond suddenly stopped.

  “Look.” He pointed. 

  Starsky looked, feeling a wash of relief at the sight of the tall ranger tower protruding from the treetops. Only about two hundred feet ahead, too, by the look of it. “T’rrific,” he said with all his heart. “They have a radio, don’t they?”

  “Yup.” Hutch’s steady stride became a lope, and Starsky made an effort to speed up and keep the pace. Hutch was nevertheless halfway up the tower ladder when Starsky, panting, reached the base.

  “You don’t need any help, do ya?” he called up hopefully.

  “No, just give me a minute,” drifted down from above. With a clatter of boots, Hutch disappeared through the trapdoor on the bottom of the lookout tower. 

  Starsky did, glancing at his watch as he waited. A minute passed. The occasional footfall was all that was audible from above him, a sign only that Hutch was moving around. A minute and a half. Starsky gave the area around them a quick look. Still no sign of Poindexter, but he was getting itchy. “You get anything?” he finally called up.

  A shot rang out. 

  Starsky dropped into a crouch, putting the tower leg between himself and where the shot seemed to have come from. “HUTCH!” he bellowed at the silent tower above him.

  Another shot, and this time Starsky could hear the wood splinter above him as the bullet struck. Poindexter was aiming for Hutch. And all Starsky could do was cower uselessly and fervently pray his partner was okay.

  And panic. “HUTCH!” he yelled again, and this time there was a response. The trapdoor above him jerked open and Hutch slid down the ladder, hands a blur and feet barely touching the rungs. He hit the ground running, pausing only long enough to grab Starsky’s arm and hiss an “I’m okay” as he raced them both away from the direction they’d come, and Poindexter and his gun. 

  Starsky sagged in relief at the sight of his intact friend, but shored up his legs again to keep up with Hutch as they ran. There was no question now that the former dealer was on their heels. “Did you get a message out?” 

  “They know where we are. I think they know we’re in trouble. That’s as far as I got.”

  It was more than Starsky had hoped for. At least help would be on the way, then. All they had to do was avoid one vengeful drug dealer until it arrived. 

  Piece of cake.

  The treeline suddenly ended, replaced by a field of flat rock. Starsky blinked in surprise at the unexpected change of terrain, then looked up to see what was ahead. And ran into Hutch’s outstretched arm, just in time to keep from going a few steps too far.

  Right over the edge of one very steep cliff.

  Sure, piece of cake. 

  Huggy Bear, barkeep extraordinaire, sauntered up to the cottage that sat by one of  Venice ’s canals. With an instinctive glance to both sides, he slid the key into the lock of the door. 

  It was a little kinky, he had to admit, one cop asking him to go to another’s house to water his plants--and did he _look_ like an errand boy? Actually, his automatic first thought had screamed “set-up,” but those two cops,  Starsky and Hutch, had always played it straight with him. Besides, he owed them one. 

  The key was sticking. Huggy made a face, bending closer to it as he jiggled it in the lock. Maybe it wasn’t a set-up, just some kind of joke. Why did one cop have another’s key, anyway? He bent even closer, almost at eye-level with the lock now as he peered at it with annoyance. And then sudden suspicion as he saw the tell-tale scratches on the lock plate.

  With narrowed eyes, Huggy straightened again and gave the key a solid, knowing twist. This time it turned and the door swung open before him. Huggy stepped forward and looked cautiously inside, careful to keep from touching either the door jamb or the door itself. 

  The room was large and neatly furnished, the colors bland but no less than Huggy would have expected from the Midwestern transplant. It looked neat, though, far neater than the thin black man’s own pad. It certainly didn’t look burglarized or vandalized. 

  One more step inside, and something white under the table caught Huggy’s eye. He bent, fishing out the crumpled slip of paper and quickly reading its simple two lines of message. Obviously a note meant to be found quickly and not crumpled and dropped under a coffee table. That was two things off, which was two more than Huggy was comfortable with.

  He automatically made the rounds of the plants that lined the windows, pouring what he hoped was an appropriate amount of water in each as he considered what to do. He had no way of reaching Starsky and Hutchinson; already it was Monday night and Starsky was no doubt long gone. But if whoever had been at the house was looking for them, maybe it couldn’t wait until they returned. There was always their boss--Huggy hadn’t met the infamous Captain Dobey, but he knew the man by reputation. Not the kind who would quickly listen to a pimp and barkeep. Fine, maybe an anonymous call then, and from a payphone just to be safe. Huggy nodded to himself. That was what he’d do. 

  The last plant soaked, he carefully wiped off both the watering can and the note, returning the latter to the top of the coffee table. Then, with a last glance both around the main room and the yard outside, Huggy shut the door behind him, rubbing the knob with his shirt before he tucked the key above the door as Starsky had instructed. You could tell the cop wasn’t a city boy, Huggy shook his head. Then, more soberingly, hoped that if Hutch did meet an enemy out in whatever wilderness he was, he’d have home turf advantage. 

  Huggy Bear headed off to find a payphone. 

  He’d never thought to be looking down at that scene again. It was probably the last sight he ever wanted to see again, and his mind’s eye obligingly added the tumbling blue-and-red figure as he fell out of sight into the trees. As Jeff Truman died.

  His arm was suddenly shaken, and Hutch’s eyes snapped away from the view below, up into his partner’s white-washed face. Starsky was talking--had been talking all along, Hutch realized--but he hadn’t heard a word. Hutch shook his head, trying to clear the aggressive memory from it. “W--What?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Fear sharpened Starsky’s words into almost sounding angry. “I thought for a minute there you weren’t comin’ back.”

  “I...” Hutch couldn’t resist another look down the cliff face. It was still there, the tiny figure, still dropping fast. 

  Starsky’s voice drew his attention back, suddenly sympathetic. “This is where he fell, isn’t it.” 

  He wasn’t being asked, but he nodded dumbly, tearing his eyes away with effort. Hutch blinked several times, finally seeing his partner in earnest. Then he frowned; Starsky looked terrible, pale and shaky, though his eyes were focused steadily on Hutch. 

  “Hutch--”

  “I’m okay.” Well, maybe not okay, but there were more important things to worry about at the moment than his delusions. Like a maniacal predator and one scared stiff partner. “We have to go down there,” he said gently. 

  This time it was Starsky who stared over the edge at the long drop below, and Hutch had an idea it was his own body he saw plummeting into the trees. He eased his arm out of Starsky’s iron grip and took the brunet’s arm instead, patiently drawing his partner’s attention back. “We can do this.” 

  “I can’t,” Starsky said stiffly.

  “Yes, you can. I’ll help. We don’t have to go all the way down. There’s a hidden ledge about a hundred feet down--Poindexter won’t be able to see us there.”

  “Hundred feet?” Starsky’s tone made it clear that it might as well have been a million. “You know me an’ heights. I can wait for Poindexter up here, set a trap for him.” He cast a desperate glance over Hutch’s shoulder. 

  Yes, Hutch knew Starsky and heights. If the fire before had spooked him, the cliff was practically a guarantee of an outright panic attack. It seemed like all his partner’s buttons were being pushed that day. 

  Not that this wasn’t the last place Hutch wanted to be, either. 

  “You can’t wait for him here,” Hutch said reasonably. “He’s got a gun. Even if you set a trap, what happens if it doesn’t work? Besides, it’s getting dark and we don’t know what kind of night gear he has. We can do this, Starsk. I won’t let you fall.”

  He said the last nearly through gritted teeth, as solemn a vow as he’d ever made in his life. 

  Starsky stared at him, then, slowly, relaxed, his shoulders dropping and his hands unclenching. The fear was still rampant in his eyes, but it no longer threatened to turn into panic. “Okay,” was all he finally said, his tone only slightly unsteady.

  His partner’s faith in him was staggering. Hutch sometimes had trouble believing it himself, but there it was. He smiled just a fraction. “Okay.”

  Still holding on to Starsky’s arm, he led the way to the west side of the cliff. 

  “Here’s where we start.” He pointed to the crevice that was wide enough for a person to ease their way down in. “It’s like climbing a pile of rocks--you make sure your feet are planted firmly and just walk down the crack. At the bottom is a small ledge and then another crack like this one. I’ll go first.” Hutch had no time for demons now; his partner was counting on him. Before he could think about it too long and change his own mind, he got on his hands and knees and began to descend. 

  Starsky only hesitated a moment, then followed him. 

  Hutch let it all drop away: Poindexter, Tru, his own doubts. The world narrowed to the rock beneath his feet and fingers, and the sneaker-clad feet just above him. Twice they slipped, and Hutch braced himself both times to catch the other if he fell, but Starsky managed to hang on. 

  Down the long crack, to the yard-wide ledge as promised. Hutch stepped back to let his partner slide down the last few feet in front of him, the cliff face on his one side and Hutch on the other. 

  “You okay?”

  “Terrific,” was the unconvincing response.

  Hutch grinned. “Good. You ready for the next one?”

  “You kiddin’?”

  He took that as a yes and eased Starsky over, making sure he had a solid grip and his foot had found the next crevice before Hutch started down it himself.

  Starsky climbed that one a little more easily, beginning to get the hang of it. His motions were still stiff with controlled fear, but his foot only slipped once this time, nearly kicking the blond in the face before Hutch reached up with a steadying arm. Still, he was grateful when they reached the next small outcropping. 

  Satisfied that Starsky was also safe, Hutch turned and crouched, assessing the next step. And narrowing his eyes at the touch of red protruding just past the lip of the ledge. He reached carefully for it, and brought up a crimson piton.

  “What’s that?” 

  He half turned back to his partner. “It’s Tru’s. This is where he fell.” He could still hear it. _”Falling,”_ and then the dead weight on the rope, just a few moments before the line went slack. Hutch shut his eyes. 

  Starsky didn’t say anything, letting him have his moment of remembrance. Then, quietly, he asked, “Where do we go from here?”

  His eyes reopened, and Hutch took a deep breath. He wedged the piton tightly back into the rock. “I go down,” he said, standing to face his partner. “You stay here. The ledge is just down there and there’s some rope there, but it’s a pretty rough climb. It’s not safe without a line.”

  “What about you?” Starsky stared at him. “You don’t have a line.”

  “At least I’ve done this before,” Hutch snapped back. At Starsky’s look, he stopped, rubbing his forehead and then spreading his hands contritely. “Look, it’s the only way. There’s no sense in risking both of us.” 

  “Yeah? What am I gonna do if you don’t come back--fly?” 

  His pretense of worrying about himself fell flat. Hutch gave his partner a disarming, soft smile. “I promised I’d get you down safely, didn’t I?”

  Starsky turned correspondingly gruff. “Yeah, well, you watch it down there. Don’t do Poindexter’s job for him.”

  A brief nod, and then Hutch was on his knees, beginning to inch his way down. 

  He never had made it that far up before, but he’d studied the cliff face with Tru until he could have traced it in his sleep. The thought of free climbing was a little unnerving, especially when he’d fallen so often on the way up, but there was no room for that kind of thinking now. Two lives were riding on him, and Hutch wasn’t willing to lose either, his climbing companion’s even more so than his own.

  Hutch clung to that determination even as his feet slipped and, for a moment, he hung by only his fingertips over empty space. 

  Teeth clenched, his feet scrambled briefly before his left one found a toehold. A few moments more and his right foot also found purchase. Hutch leaned his forehead against the cool stone face for a moment, trying to catch his breath and get his heart back down where it belonged.

  “Hutch?”

  “I’m okay,” he quickly answered the worried call from above. Starsky couldn’t see him from that angle, but he’d probably heard the sound of Hutch’s feet scraping the rock wall. The sooner he moved, the sooner the nightmare would be over for both of them. 

  Taking it slow and steady, Hutch eased himself a little further down, and then a few inches more. And before he allowed himself to think about it, his foot was dangling in front of a hollow in the cliff, only a few feet above horizontal rock. With a rush of relief, he swung himself down into the shelter of the hidden ledge. 

  “Hutch?”

  The rope was there, still looped through the piton he’d used to control Tru’s rope. Hutch automatically reeled it in, refusing to think about the last time he’d been there, working that rope. Slamming back against the cliff face when the line went slack. Hutch reached the end, and stood and stared at it for a moment. At the end of the clip was a torn piece of blue material, all that was left of Jeff Truman’s climbing outfit. 

  “Hutch!”

  He faltered for a second, torn between past and present, until it sank in that Starsky was still waiting above for him. “I--I’m fine. I made it.” He could almost hear Starsky’s breath of relief. “I’ve got the rope--thread it through the piton and tie it around you.”

  “Piton?”

  “The spike with the clip on it,” Hutch said patiently. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” Starsky didn’t sound completely certain, but Hutch was impressed he was doing as well as he was. Gauging the distance up to his partner, Hutch swung the rope for a few seconds before letting it fly. 

  “Got it.”

  Hutch nodded once, then secured the line through the piton in the ledge, testing it to make sure the line slid easily through it, and got a good grip on it. It pulled and slackened as Starsky worked with it above. 

  “I’m ready.” 

  “Okay, come down nice and easy. I’ve got you if you fall.”

  The skittering of pebbles down the rock face told him that Starsky had started his descent, and Hutch concentrated on playing out the rope as needed. A few minutes later, the soles of the Adidas’s came into view above, and Hutch kept his eye on them even as he controlled the rope. 

  Thus he saw Starsky slip, exactly where he himself had, just before the rope jerked. 

  Hutch immediately set his feet, anchoring the rope while his partner gave a panicked cry above. Starsky slid down a foot, trying desperately to grab onto the rock face again as the rope took all his weight.  
  “I’ve got you, partner,” Hutch calmed. “You’re not gonna fall. Find your holds in the rock. There’s one to your left for your hand, and another just below your right foot.”

  It took a minute of near-hyperventilation from above, but Starsky finally found the fissures, gluing himself to the rock.

  “That’s good. Now just ease down. You’re almost there.”

  “Hutch?” His street-tough partner sounded as rattled as Hutch had ever heard him.

  “I’m right here. You’ve only got a little way to go--you can make it.” 

  “I think...I’d rather face Poindexter.”

  Hutch gave a brief laugh. “Not much choice now, buddy. Keep coming. I won’t let you fall, trust me.” 

  Starsky began to move again, one hand slowly feeling its way downward to another hold, while Hutch coached from below. Then the other hand, then feet. Carefully, he crept down the last few feet until Hutch could reach him and helped him find footing on the ledge.

  Starsky’s legs were shaky at best, and Hutch quickly moved him away from the edge of the outcropping, to lean back against the cliff wall. Then he finally let himself grin at his ashen partner. “You made it.”

  The return laugh didn’t quite come off. “So did you,” Starsky said breathlessly. 

  Hutch’s grin faded. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it, about where he was going and when he’d been there last, but the ledge certainly held a lot of ghosts. He wasn’t sure being there was an achievement at all; he’d never wanted to see the place again. Idly he turned the end piece of rope in his hand, staring at the ripped square of fabric it was attached to. 

  “What’s that?” Starsky’s voice was coming back, but it was still rusty with exhaustion and lingering fear. 

  Hutch held it up a little higher for his partner to see. “Part of Tru’s harness.”

  Starsky’s voice held all the horror he himself felt a few days before. “It ripped?”

  Hutch nodded numbly. 

  “That’s how he fell? His harness ripped? So there wasn’t anything you could do, was there?” 

  Hutch shook his head, trying not to feel the despair that encroached again at the memory. “It’s not that simple. There's a lot about Tru you don't know." A lot he hadn't known, himself. But all he could feel now toward his old friend was pity. And regret. Hutch's mouth twisted. "He was upset, Starsky, that’s why he slipped.” 

  Starsky shifted next to him, all his attention on his partner now. “What happened, Hutch?” Very softly.

  “Does it matter? He--he wanted something from me I couldn’t give.” Hutch’s fingers were white around the rope. 

  “And that’s your fault?”

  Hutch nearly sputtered a laugh. How was it that his partner always made things so black and white? Starsky hadn’t even asked what Truman had wanted, what secrets he shared with Hutch. Hutch was grateful for that, not sure he was ready to tell. But he’d been blaming himself for pushing Tru away, right off the cliff, when regardless why his friend slipped, what else _could_ Hutch have done? Agreed to be what he was not? Truman would have never wanted or accepted his capitulation at that cost. Hutch knew his friend better than that. 

  It was just hard to block out the memory of his former partner falling to his death. 

  “There you are!” 

  The dark shape swung in from above before he even had time to react.

  _“Hutch!”_ He could hear his partner’s warning the same moment he leaped to his feet, but there was no time for defense. Poindexter was on the ledge in the next instant, one hand wrapped around the rope he’d come down on, the other brandishing a sizeable knife. 

  Starsky had always been the one with faster reflexes, but still a little unbalanced from the climb, his tackle was off, hitting Poindexter from the wrong angle. The man barely moved, heaving back with his free arm to sweep Starsky off the ledge in one motion. 

  Hutch went cold. This couldn’t happen, not again. Not Starsky.

  His shock cost him. Poindexter reversed his swing just as fast and all Hutch saw was the glint of the wicked knife before he tried to lurch away from it, only partially successful. The blade sliced through jacket, shirt sleeve, skin, and muscle with one neat stroke. 

  Hutch couldn’t even feel it. Landing clumsily against the rock wall, his hand brushed the surface of the ledge and he grabbed a handful of rock chips and dirt. With a wild cry, he flung it into the face of his attacker.

  Poindexter growled in surprise, pushing off the ledge for a moment to clear his eyes.

  Hutch didn’t hesitate this time, throwing himself on the edge of the ledge and making himself look down. 

  Straight into Starsky’s terrified face. Somehow the brunet had managed to catch himself on the outcropping lip and hung by his fingers over the fatal drop.

  “I’ve got you,” Hutch panted, wrapping both his hands around Starsky’s wrists. Pulling hard, he managed to get one of Starsky’s arms over the lip of the rock shelf, then pulled on the other. 

  A breathtaking blow in his ribs knocked him away, against the cliffside. Poindexter was back. Even as Hutch’s eyesight briefly swam, out of the corner of his eye he saw Starsky’s arm slip back over the edge, out of sight again. 

  That was it. He wasn’t going to play this madman’s game any longer. Reaching his feet just as Poindexter’s knife arced down again, Hutch snatched the man’s rope and stretched it in front of him, in the path of the knife. 

  Poindexter sliced his rope clean through. 

  His shocked expression was all Hutch had time to register. Then, with a single wail of “No,” the man fell backward, tumbling the long way down. It was one fall that wouldn’t be haunting Hutch.

  He didn’t wait to savor it, lunging back to where he desperately hoped to find his partner still clinging. And he was, his fingers just beginning to slip. Hutch grabbed hold with an iron grip. 

  One mighty, adrenalin-powered heave, and he pulled Starsky up and over the edge. They both collapsed back onto the ledge, quivering with the after-effects of terror from two very different causes. 

  But they were alive. 

  Starsky spoke first, his voice a bare whisper. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry...I got you into this.” 

  “That’s what I...get for...not leavin’ you alone.”

  Hutch smiled up at the approaching dusk. “Thanks.”

  There was a shuffle of movement next to him as Starsky finally found enough strength to push himself up on his elbows, giving Hutch a glance as he did. His voice suddenly sharpened with alarm. “Hey, you’re bleedin’!”

  Was he? Oh, yeah. Maybe that was why he couldn’t seem to manage to sit up.

  His partner scrambled up onto his knees and leaned over Hutch to poke at his jacket. A moment later he had his army knife in hand and was cutting Hutch’s sleeve. 

  “That’s my favorite jacket,” Hutch murmured. 

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” Starsky shot back. “We can go shopping when I get my new car.” 

  He’d nearly forgotten the Datsun. Hutch had never liked the old mustard-colored car; with any luck, Starsky would finally get something tasteful. But his partner had lost a lot that day, and faced more than a few nightmares, all because he’d been worried about Hutch. And despite the whole ordeal, there he was still, fussing over Hutch. It was awfully humbling. He’d been very lucky in partners. 

  His bloody clothes sliced away, Hutch abruptly realized what was coming next and braced himself. Starsky gave him an apologetic look and carefully pressed down on the wound. Hutch bit his tongue and shut his eyes, waiting for the worst to pass.

  Maybe it did quickly, or maybe he lost a little time, but the next thing he knew, Starsky was binding his arm with the remains of his jacket, then easing him up to rest with his back against the cliff wall. With a tired sound, Starsky settled beside him. 

  It was almost dark. Hutch stared at the emerging stars for a minute before realizing what they meant. “We’ll have to wait to climb back up until tomorrow,” he said tiredly.

  Starsky snorted next to him. “I ain’t climbing back up there. They got you down with an airlift, they can do it again.”

  Hutch almost laughed. Well, why not? They deserved it, after all they’d gone through. They wouldn’t last long up there without water, but between his aborted message and Poindexter’s fall, someone would be looking for them soon enough. 

  “How you doin’?” Starsky asked quietly. Even in the fading light, his eyes were bright with concern as they studied Hutch.

  How was he doing? Truman’s loss hurt a lot, but his friend would never have wished the guilt for his death on Hutch. And he still had so much. Like his “new” partner who’d made him see that truth and was now worriedly watching him to make sure he was okay with it. Trapped on a mountain side, his blood all over his partner’s hands...Hutch found his mouth curving into a smile. “I’m good,” he said, maybe with a little surprise. Maybe not. He’d lost a lot, and yet he felt like he had more than ever. Hutch met his partner’s eyes and nodded. “Really good.”

  He’d never meant it more. 

  



End file.
